Don’t let the Ackerman surname fool you. We grew up in an Irish household. While my paternal grandparents were second generation German-Americans who said things like “telewision” and “Wenetian blinds,” at which we kids laughed and drew a stern look from our dad, my mom’s mom, the former Esther Moran, was beyond proud of her family’s roots in the Emerald Isle.
“County Mayo and County Sligo,” she’d announce if asked from where her ancestors hailed. We all learned to do the same. Her father, James Moran, was a widower living in Pittston with three children when he met and later married Sabina McGlone, a native of Ireland, who would later present him with baby Esther.
We have no photos of Sabina, but with my late grandmother, mother and Aunt Dorothy as evidence, she must have been beautiful. Second only to my grandmother’s love of her Irish heritage was her love of her God. She was a devout Catholic.
So, you can just imagine her thoughts when my mom brought home Howard Ackerman, a Lutheran, and introduced him as her intended husband. I don’t know if the edict came from the church or from my grandmother, but my dad often said he had to promise that his children would be raised Catholic before the marriage could take place. He’d usually remind us of that when we were trying to weasel our way out of going to church or to religious education classes.
My dad took that promise seriously. My dad and my grandmother developed a marvelous relationship. She prefer.
